Chapter 190 Quiet crisis

Chapter 190 Quiet crisis
Three hours into the flight, Kaden is still completely passed out in the stateroom bed. I step into the quiet suite to check on him for what must be the third time since takeoff, partly to escape George, who's currently enduring Sylvie’s endless rambling in the forward cabin, but mostly because I simply can't resist the constant, itching compulsion to look at him.
I sit down quietly on the edge of the mattress, my thumb gently sweeping a stray lock of dark hair back from his forehead. A small, helpless smile touches my lips. I recall the way he had wrapped himself around me at dawn, his limbs locked tight as if trying to physically prevent me from sneaking out of bed. And then, despite his exhaustion, waking up just to drag me back down and eagerly initiate another round. It's no wonder he’s completely wiped out.
I stand, pulling the heavy duvet up over his shoulders even though it doesn't really need fixing, before turning to walk back toward the main cabin.
George is sitting across from Sylvie, still nursing the exact same glass of whiskey he poured a while ago. Sylvie, on the other hand, is aggressively devouring a plate of seared wagyu sliders from the flight galley, completely devoid of self-consciousness.
I take the leather armchair opposite George, pull the stack of acquisition files Sylvie had been "reviewing" across the polished wood table, and begin flipping through them.
"Still sleeping?" George asks softly.
I nod without looking up. "Yeah. His shift last night must've drained him."
George goes quiet for a beat, watching the ice melt in his glass. "He's a good kid."
I lift my eyes to him briefly before returning to the numbers on the page. "He is."
"And the campaign seems to be doing well," he adds smoothly. "Saw the billboards on the way to the airfield."
Sylvie finishes a bite, swallowing quickly before chiming in. "I saw them too! God, he's so ridiculously sexy in—" She freezes mid-sentence, catching the lethal angle of my head tilt, and instantly pivots. "...I mean, he's just so extremely marketable. Great demographic appeal." She aggressively opens her laptop, typing furiously to appear occupied.
A quiet beat passes. "He liked them," I find myself saying aloud.
I look back at George, my tone shifting to business. "I have meetings and a press briefing lined up over the next four days. I’ll be with Kaden as much as possible, but whenever I’m occupied, I want you taking him around. Anywhere he wants to go."
"Actually," Sylvie speaks up, her eyes glued to her screen, "you're completely open on Thursday afternoon. There’s this incredible ramen spot in Yanaka. We should all go."
I give her a stern, pointed look intended to remind her that she's on a business trip, not a vacation. But she isn't even looking at me, totally unbothered as she reaches for another slider with one hand while clicking through emails with the other.
George lets out a low chuckle, watching the interaction. Then he watches me, and quietly, he says, "You seem different around him. Less wound up. Happier."
My gaze drifts toward the curtained archway leading to the back room. "I am."
And I mean it. I like the way things are right now. Everything feels settled, grounded in a way my life rarely is, and a part of me fiercely hopes it stays this way. There's a deep, profound sense of security in what I have with Kaden, it's something I treasure. Having this one person who lights up the edge of my world, making the constant noise and pressure feel entirely worth it.
Silence settles over the cabin for a minute before George looks over at Sylvie. "Sylvie, give us a moment, would you? There's something private I need to go over with Bastian."
She glances between the two of us, shrugs, and grabs her laptop. "Sure. I’ll go bother the crew for more dessert," she disappears down the forward aisle toward the galley.
I study George, leaning back against the leather cushion. "What is it now?"
"Nothing bad, depending on how you look at it," he says calmly. He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out two amber prescription bottles, and sets them on the table between us.
My eyes lock onto them instantly. I had been quietly obsessing over my stash for the last forty-eight hours. I was down to seven pills, which, in my mind, was a quiet crisis given how violently my pain had been acting up lately. It always seems to flare the moment the bottle runs low. But I hadn't pushed George for a refill, trusting him to handle it. He always does.
I reach out and pick up the bottles. They're heavy and completely full. Relief instantly settles deep into my chest as I slide them into my pocket.
"Did you really make Sylvie leave just so you could hand me my prescription?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "A bit dramatic and unnecessary, don't you think?"
George doesn't laugh. He shakes his head slowly. "Dr. Ramirez is retiring at the end of the month, Bastian. She's moving out of state. She won't be able to write your prescriptions anymore."
I look up at him, my brow furrowing slightly. "I'm sure she's delegating her long-term patients to whoever's taking over her practice."
He nods slowly. "She is. But the doctor taking over is strictly by the books. He won't blindly sign off on heavy controlled substances without evaluating the patient himself."
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. "You'll need to go in for a full check-up when we get back. Just so you can get acquainted, and he can properly assess the injury. Standard protocol."
I hold George’s gaze, my voice dropping into a flat, unyielding register. "I'm sure you can handle it, George." I make a subtle, sweeping gesture around the cabin. "As you can see, I live a very busy life."
"I'm sure we can squeeze a thirty-minute appointment into your schedule somewhere," he replies, his tone matching mine. Calm, immovable, and entirely unimpressed. "It won't take long."
Instead of answering, I reach into my jacket, pull out the nearly empty bottle with the seven remaining pills, and pop the cap open. I shake one out into my palm, toss it back, and wash it down with a heavy swallow of neat whiskey.
"I'm good," I say flatly, setting the glass back on the table with a soft clink.
George opens his mouth, his brow furrowing as he starts to speak. "Bastian—"
"Do what you're told, George," I cut him off, my eyes locking onto his with zero room for debate.
A tense beat stretches between us. He forces a strained, tight smile, the muscle in his jaw ticking once before he gives a single nod.
"Of course. You're in charge."